


ulysses dies at dawn

by korey



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Video Blogging RPF
Genre: (next chapter—stay tuned for that :)), Character Study, Clay | Dream Dies, Ghost Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Light Angst, Lower Case Text Is Intentional, M/M, Mythology References, Songfic, Sympathetic Dream
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:07:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,123
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28398960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/korey/pseuds/korey
Summary: elysian fields stretch out before me /sunlight dapples through the leaves /of the sole surviving oak tree /as i wait for my release /lying here among the flowers /i can rest my weary bones /in the earth with my beloved /i have found my final home /—elysian fields, the mechanisms(loving a god is painful.)
Relationships: Clay | Dream/Technoblade (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 103





	ulysses dies at dawn

**Author's Note:**

> yeah its (the first chapter, lol) a songfic ❤️ u cant stop me
> 
> first chap is ship-adjacent, the next ones are explicitly shippy. cheers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title and song taken from mitski's "last words of a shooting star"—it's such a good song.

_all of this turbulence wasn't forecasted /  
apologies from the intercom /_

dream hadn't intended for it to turn out this way. well—not _this_ way. sure, he knew he was playing the villain: you don't try and bury a nation without at least an inkling of what you were doing. but he'd... always been trying to just walk that line in between, just evil enough to be believable but just charming enough to be lovable.

at least one enough to deserve a graceful descent.

when did it happen? was it when he went hunting for tommy, when he'd destroyed logstedshire? or was it further back, when he'd convinced tubbo to exile him, when he'd deposed george of kinghood? he didn't mean for it to hurt, didn't mean for it to be humiliating—

 _just say that you hate me_ , and it rings in his ears as he runs and thinks and runs and thinks and it plays with every thump on forest ground while the rest of the server, who've moved past their grievances, moved past superficial enemies, who'd learned to pool resources and knowledge.

he regrets it, but does not regret it. _monster_ is what they whisper but _divinity_ is what they think. he is neither.

_and i am relieved that i'd left my room tidy / they'll think of me kindly when they come for my things /_

he runs and runs and runs, past branches in the world he knows well, pulls through foliage only touched by his hands. he skates past things he'd help build, things he'd created. even if it was something as insignificant as a block, it was _his_ cursed touch, _his_ sordid brain. but if they could forget—

if they would leave something that he had build, no matter how small—a legacy.

_they will remember, they'll burn it down and they'll crush it because he was a tyrant and he deserved what he had coming for him, who was he kidding?_

he bursts out of the woods into a snowy clearing and he feels, absurdly and distantly, triumphant. _i am a golden god,_ he wants to yell, before plummeting down to hard ground once more.

_they'll never know how i'd stared at the dark in that room / with no thoughts, like a blood-sniffing shark / and while my dreams made music in the night, carefully /_

_i was going to live._

he wants to turn around and lay out his plans, bare what he'd written in blood for them to see, for them to _understand,_ but only one person could ever grasp that, could ever see the scope of his plans and smile fondly and think _yes, this is possible._

but in his story, in his plot: he does not live. he hunts, and he destroys, and he hides every cruelty with the clean bone china mask, forged from the ash of his enemies. _what silliness,_ he thinks. _he has no time to burn bones._

then, they do the same to his ashes. burn it—maybe not even offer the courtesy of burn it. maybe they'll leave his body, decaying, out for the various mobs to chew at. it's not a bad death, he thinks. from the ground i have come, and unto ground i shall return.

a wonderful circular ending. every thread tied into the beautiful bow.

_and you'd say you love me and look in my eyes / but i know through mine, you were looking in yours /_

they've finally caught up. he's made peace with himself, with his death. originally, he'd thought he'd be some kind of god forever, ever living and ever enigmatic. but that's not possible anymore, is it? he's allowed too much of himself to seep into what he does, into how he says it.

before they plunge their knives in, they demand answers. george and sapnap especially—his second-in-commands who assumed command for themselves. and they demand from him, demand explanations, _why did you turn so cruel_ and _why did you turn so mean_ but they are asking themselves that question, how did it turn out so _shit?_ it was just a children's crusade before, play-acting at cruelty and kindness.

he lets the bone china mask answer for him, smiling placid and stale.

_and did you know that the liberty bell is a replica / silently housed in its original walls /_  
_and while its dreams played music in the night, quietly /_  
_it was told to believe._

he trusts his closest friends to be the kindest. because they know how cruel death and respawn is, how it hurts terribly to have your self ripped away before being pieced back together by some omnipotent force.

he wants to lie back, almost, and allow them to rip him to shreds. but they'd never accept that. never'd accept a running dream, only one fighting till the bitter end, and he's woven the story so it ends like this, so the final cruel act can end and he can plunge and—

_i always wanted to die clean and pretty /_

he'd always wanted to die a quiet death, and the only other man to understand his plans scoffed, _you are a hero and heroes don't get happy endings_ , and _oh, i don't think i'm a_ hero _, couldn't i poison myself and be over with it?_

_but i'd be too busy on working days /_

once this is over, he dimly thinks as another arrow sinks into his side, will they go back to l'manberg? will they take down the horrifying prison, the blackstone experiment dream never should've constructed? will they take down the flag, open the borders, realize that these divisions are temporary and they are better as a team?

_so i am relieved that the turbulence wasn't forecasted /_

too early and too late, not a good time, never a good time, never never never never and he'd wanted to plan and plan and plan and imagine his execution in a million different scenes before he went through with it

_i couldn't have changed it anyways /_

it was going to descend on him eventually. he could have stalled, pressed back against the grinding axe, but the pendulum swings closer either way.

_i am relieved that i left my room tidy /_

goodbye.

_goodbye._

right before his body, aching and bleeding, succumbs into the frozen shire, he feels calloused hands—never soft—gently touch him and hold him in something approximating a hug. he wants to laugh with the last of his life, call the other man a fool and tell him to cast dream away, but he can only sink into soft fabric and softer fur,

_we talk about them like they are lovers / icarus and his sun.  
i failed to forsee, as hou yi hunts a theatre of suns,  
savours /  
all nine screams._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the last bit at the end mixes ["Icarus Hypothesis Love"](https://stealingpotatoes.tumblr.com/post/616754430190256128/the-poem-is-icarus-hypothesis-love-by-the) by @stealingpotatoes and @flightlesskiwi and stephanie chang's poem [ "ghazal for moon maiden"](https://counterclock.org/stephanie-chang). both of these poems are incredibly good.
> 
> i have no idea when i'll post the next chapter. could be tomorrow could be next year. we'll see how it pans out.


End file.
